The Banker and the Red Wolf
by jlcleaumus
Summary: Tycho Nestoris ventures to Westeros to collect on a debt for the Iron Bank. One-shot sequel/follow-up to A War for Five Queens, & Sansa-centric.


_A one time one-shot sequel to A War for Five Queens. Like the last story, it's Sansa-centric, so if you hate her character, then I'd advise you to not bother. Also, this story will include some minor OC's from the main story, as well references to that plot, so if you read it by itself, it may not make sense...so I'd advise reading War/Five Queens first (again, unless you hate Sansa, in which case, no need to bother)._

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**Tycho**

They told him not to underestimate the Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms. Many had made that mistake. Many of them were dead, not the least of which a Dragon Queen whom his institution had thankfully not backed. Not that Daenerys Targaryen requested any such backing, considering the three dragons she had at her disposal when she first set sail for Westeros. When she lost the three dragons, Tycho thought there a chance the last Targaryen heir may finally come crawling to the Iron Bank, but by that point the board would have been near certain to rejected her plea, considering how little _material_ claim she had to the throne, outside of three dragons.

While the Wolf Queen was his current problem at the moment, the root of his headaches had been the ill advised loan he gave to the Lioness, a regrettable course of action, and done entirely of his own personal accord, one which still elicited unseen whispers whenever he walked through the halls of the bank. Perhaps he had grown too proud, too confident in his ability to pick a winner. He should have had second thoughts, not on his own ability, but rather the unpredictable nature of the recent wars of Westeros after Stannis Baratheon's failure. That ill advised move he could at least share blame with his colleagues. Cersei Lannister was his and his mistake alone.

If only the war had dragged on longer, if only the Stark faction had suffered more than their one setback at Swanton. Faced with a prolonged quagmire, he would have reached out to the Red Wolf, seeing that her victory was inevitable once she consolidated the support of practically five or six of all the Westerosi kingdoms, and offered assistance in finishing off her Targaryen invaders once and for all...provided she agree to the assumption and gradual repayment of the Lannister loan. Perhaps, with Daenerys biding her time in Dragonstone, Pyke or Pentos, he could have leveraged the Stark girl's rival had she showed signs of resistence, hinting that his other colleagues were leaning towards backing the Targaryen claim if she did not accept their offer.

But the Dragon Queen overplayed her hand, and any hope he had remaining to collect the debt evaporated when Sansa Stark set off immediately securing the gold paid to the recently deceased Golden Company, who had unfortunately left their earnings on the wrong side of the Narrow Sea. So yes, backing Cersei Lannister had been his mistake. It was not unheard of for bad judgments to be written off, but this sum was more than significant, and a non repayment by the crown of Westeros weighed much more against the bank's reputation as opposed to some petty slaver or merchant lord in Essos. And perhaps his own reputation wouldn't be on the line, had the Stannis failure not already stained it such.

Though the failed rebellion was expected and, in fact, all part of their plan, his fellow regents questioned whether he should accept this invitation from the Queen Regnant. Little was known of Sansa I of House Stark, besides a reputation that had her as equally cold and calculating, alongside rumors that her even more mysterious sister Arya had once spent time in Braavos herself. He figured the worries of his colleagues that the young Queen would attempt something rash with this invitation were likely unfounded. Sansa Stark's rather sudden ascension from war hostage and possible kingslayer, to regional power, to suddenly uniting most of the lords of the realm under her crown, with zero blood claim of her own, baffled most on his side on the Narrow Sea, and not more than a few of her own people, Tycho figured. An occasional patron of the street plays in his city, he noticed that even the actors' troupes had yet to come up with a depiction of her ascension as quickly as they had of the events from the War of Five Kings. But he could rely upon the guess that Sansa Stark had not gotten where she was through rashness.

Tycho personally liked King's Landing better, or Eddardton, as it was called now, the new city being built upon the ruins and ashes of the old. The port, relatively unscathed from the Targaryen dragon's wrath, provided a direct path to the Red Keep, and required little additional travel into the interior of the continent. Riverrun, however, was more than a month's travel across a war-torn land, and necessitated the employ of several additional guards to protect the his humble body from bandits and all who roamed the land.

Apparently the female rulers of Westeros had even less reluctance for bloodshed than their male predecessors. Though the current queen's toll seemed light compared to Cersei's and Daenerys's, each war won saw a lesser share of the enemy spared. But then Robert had a Wall to help aid his mercy, hadn't he? And while many of the lessor lords had hanged from the recent rebellion alongside the Blackfyre pretender, two of the main ones still remained alive for the time being.

Both were her kin, which seemed to complicate matters according to the traditions of this land. Robin Arryn himself never openly supported the rebellion. It was a wise choice, considering his own vassal was Hand to the Queen he sought to move against, and the silence from the Eyrie when the so called Aegon Blackfyre landed by Wickenden ultimately doomed the ill fated invasion. As for the other perpetrator, the Queen herself now occupied his castle for the moment, blood ties alone likely being the only reason Edmure Tully still lived, for now.

The morning upon his arrival to Riverrun, he spotted two men joining their procession on horseback. One he recognized from a past, failed venture. The other, the identify he surmised.

"Lord Davos," he said kindly, emerging from his wheelhouse at the gates of the castle. "And you must be Jon Stark, King in the North."

"His friends call him Jon Snow," Davos said, while the King himself seemed little interested in conversing. "Last time we met, I believe you called me an upstart thief, or something of the sort."

"Last time we met, you served a different King," Tycho replied, choosing his words carefully. Davos's loyalties lay firmly with Jon Stark, he knew, despite the fact that it was his sister who ennobled him. A loyal man, to be recognized as such, but the King in the North would follow the lead of his sister. _Cousin_, he corrected in his mind, but regardless, it would not bear him well to unnecessarily antagonize either. "I do apologize however, my lord. You must realize all words spoken were done so for the sake of...business. And you got the gold after all, didn't you?"

"Aye," Davos admitted. "Didn't get to enjoy it, certainly not as much as some old friends who reaped better the rewards."

He was greeted at the castle's gates by a towering knight with light, blonde hair. Upon further examination he saw the facial features were somewhat feminine. He nodded politely.

"Ser Brienne of Tarth."

"The Queen is waiting," the Lord, or was it Lady, Commander of the Queensguard said tersely. Tycho hoped it was not an omen of his conversation with her Queen.

"Did you expect a warm welcome, Lord Tycho," King Jon finally spoke, not friendly at all, but then again, Northmen were not known for their courtesies.

"I expect Queen Sansa to live up every bit to her reputation," Tycho said cautiously. "Mistakes...were made. I'm here to rectify them."

As several more Westerosi knights accompanied him into the halls of the castle, he felt ever more alone. Something in the eyes of the guard lady told him that she would strike him down without a second thought had she permission, and that she was not alone in that sentiment. _The Queen wouldn't dare_, he thought. Harm an agent of the Iron Bank, and her grip on the throne, though seemingly secure now, stood to face endless threats far eclipsing the ones posed by the recent Kinsmen's Rebellion.

She sat at the head of a long table, flanked on either end by Lannisters. Ironic, he thought, considering the history between the families. The presumed fragility of the alliance was one of the reasons the Bank had decided to support the rebellion. Tycho himself had voted against it, as he was keen to tell the Queen, her pale face looking as icy as the northlands from where she was born. To her left stood Marion Lannister, the new Hand of the Queen now that Yohn Royce had returned east to take regency over the Vale in his sunset days, until the unmarried Robin Arryn, on his way, they said, to remain a prisoner in some castle in Dorne, could marry and birth an heir, who would then be raised by the Queen's own brothercousin in Winterfell. It was said that, to ensure the traitor's marriage would not be seen as a reward, the Queen instructed Martyn Martell to pick for her cousin the fattest and plainest match in his realm, preferably a bastard Sand girl.

To the Queen's right sat the Half Man. Tycho remembered that Tyrion Lannister been married to the Queen for a fortnight, during the troubled times. Now the man served as her Master of Law, quite capably, he heard, much of the realm's stability owing to him. His was a formidable mind, but a man of reason, and Tycho saw little reason to fear from him. The giant beast, however, curled up between the Queen and the smaller Lannister, did scare him, and he thought both the direwolf and her queen were holding back barely contained growls.

Brienne the lady knight pulled out the chair next to his, and gestured for him to sit. He did, but not before bowing first. "Your Grace." To his dismay, the Queen did not even flinch in acknowledgement. They told him the Red Wolf of Winterfell betrayed little in person, but to be aware that her mind never wavered, always assessing and calculating every word uttered in her vicinity.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of an audience with the Queen," he said after sitting down. "I hear the rebuilding goes well at King's...I'm sorry, Eddardton."

To his dismay, the queen, clad in a plain gown of dark purple, had little use for his pleasantries. "The Iron Bank financed my cousin Robyn Arrin and my Uncle Edmure Tully's rebellion against me. Treason does not hide across a Narrow Sea...not for me."

Tycho nodded. "You should know, Your Grace, that I voted against that loan..."

"Which is why they dared not send anyone else," the Queen's deep voice interrupted.

"The Iron Bank does not wish to make an enemy of the Crown, Your Grace. With the liberation of the slaver cities by Daenerys Targaryen, legions of newly freed mercenary companies and Unsullied abounded the land. Aegon Blackfyre wished to hire one, and we presumed that it was the spoils of the Slaver's Bay he was after, not a crown his supposed ancestors had tried and failed to claim so many times."

"The bank casts doubt on his claim to the Blackfyre, considering he was nothing more than an upstart pit fighter who earned enough coin to dye his hair?" Sansa interrupted rather rudely again, and Tycho wondered whether this would remain the tone of his meeting. "If so, perhaps I may overlook your foolishness. Of course, if you did believe in his blood claim, then I would think it even more foolish not to assume that a Blackfyre, real or not, would take your gold to immediately pursue where every Blackfyre has tried and failed before."

They had not offered him wine yet. Perhaps they knew he would refuse. But refusing such offers was one of the small pleasures of his job. "Regardless of his blood," he lied, "he was in no position to mount an invasion of the your realm, Your Grace."

"You had no idea," the Queen asked skeptically, as if she could see through him. "I've heard whispers to the contrary."

"Your Grace," Tycho protested, "I assure you..."

"We'll cut her piece by piece until she comes to the table," Sansa said, her voice mimicking familiar words he'd once heard himself. "Isn't that what your colleague Derryen said? A small bit of gold to sink every few years with a failed pretender, add in some of her own unsatisfied lords, and she'll seek an accommodation just to be rid of the constant pains."

He sat suddenly straighter in his seat. Did she have a spy, infiltrated within the very ranks of his banks? Certainly neither he nor his colleagues could be bribed. Was it some kind of blackmail then? He remembered stories of the Queen's brother, the trueborn one, possessing some sort of mysterious talent, and looked nervously around the room for a young cripple, meeting only the unfriendly eyes of the Queen's advisers and one unhappy wolf bigger than himself.

"I'm afraid your whispers are false," he said nervously, daring not to look at the direwolf as he lied.

"Although," the Queen continued, giving no sign as to have heard his protestations, "you underestimated the stupidity of my uncle and cousin, did you not? You didn't expect a former pit fighter savvy enough with Westerosi politics to send ravens to two of my unhappiest lords paramount, and you didn't expect them dumb enough to agree...thus, two or three cuts collapsing into only one shallow one..."

"Your Grace..."

"They called him Sweetrobin," she interrupted again, "a misleading name for a terrible child. Unfortunately, my aunt Lysa put ridiculous notions in his head that he and I may marry one day, and what a superb prize I would be to claim, along with my throne. Though, the complication that the Blackfyre pretender would seek to either marry me himself, or kill me, made him realize such a move was ill planned, wasn't it? Or perhaps he thought he could betray the invader, only to find that Yohn Royce had deprived him of most of the lords in the Vale."

"I can't speak for Lord Robin, Your Grace..."

"Did my uncle think he could be Hand to a Blackfyre King? Did he think a foreign pretender would spare me, his dear niece, after dethroning me? I _have_ questioned him myself extensively, and it's what he claims...and I'm almost tempted to believe him. Perhaps Harry Hardyng believed I would be spared as well, so that he could depose his own liege lord, and use his marriage to a former Queen as a way to shore up Lordship over the Vale. They called him Harry the Heir you know, back when most did not believe that Sweetrobin would survive childhood. I'd let you ask him, this would be rebel of yours, had I not cut the rope which hung him myself."

Westerosi politics were complicated, they had learned in the last few fortnights. He had tried to argue as such with his colleagues, whose tactics he agreed with, but not their timing. _The Queen's position is strong,_ he said then, despite the unexpected nature of her betrothal.

"If you have questioned Lord Tully," Tycho said, trying to maneuver a way out of his corner, wondering if his more pessimistic friends were indeed correct that he was sailing to an early grave in Westeros, "he'll tell the truth, which is that the Iron Bank had nothing to do with his...misguided ambitions."

"He's no longer Lord Tully," one of the Queen's advisers said for the first time. From his sigil, Tycho deduced it was Tytos Blackwood, formerly Master of Coin, now the new Master of Whispers with the shuffling of her Small Council.

"Who is to take Riverrun, if I may ask," he said, genuinely curious. If he could survive this venture, failure as it was likely to prove, at least he could return to Braavos with information, always of value to the Bank. And it would not be a bad idea to use the information in a way which may uncover where the Westerosi infiltration came from.

"The Queen herself," Sansa replied coldly. "My second born will be named a Tully upon coming of age."

He had to give it to the wolf queen, eager and quick as she was to use the disaster of what could barely be called a rebellion to consolidate further the realm within her own iron grip. A pretty young girl, of just over five and twenty years. Now that he's met her, he thought he may report upon his return that, failing poor health, he solidly expected her to remain on the throne for possibly another fifty. Though poor health could be carefully arranged, but such a distasteful act would be unnecessary if he could somehow salvage _something_ out of this negotiation. She was competent, she was stable, and if she could yet see how she and the Iron Bank could benefit each other...well, it would be far more preferable than dealing with another, more unknown quantity sitting atop the most important throne in the known world.

"Your Grace, I can protest and assure you the innocence of myself and my colleagues with regard to your accusations, though if you are determined upon our guilt, I suppose it would be difficult for me to provide you conclusive proof otherwise. Regardless, I apologize for any misunderstandings which could have arisen across the Narrow Sea," he gulped, making the decision as he did so, knowing that, were his colleagues in his place, they could only come to the same conclusion. "As a token of goodwill towards what I hope will be a better relationship for the future, the Iron Bank will forgive the debts of Cersei Lannister. Our ledgers are cleansed, Your Grace."

"So you'll allow me to keep what I already have?"

"If you put it that way..."

For the first time, the Queen smiled, and Tycho realized that this had been her aim all along. Perhaps she saw the wisdom of a future relationship as well.

"Very well. You must be on your way then. I bid you a good journey back to Braavos."

No, this will not do. He pretended to rise and leave, but then happened to have a new thought occur to him.

"Your Grace...my institution thrives not off of repayments cleared and never again visited, but rather, a healthy exchange of..." Tycho started gently.

"Yes, interest," she interrupted yet again. "I'm not an idiot. It's a rather simple concept, understood by even the lowest of sellswords."

He coughed. Having been through many a painful meeting, he could conclude that would rank as one of his worst. "I don't presume, Your Grace. But the patronage of the Kings...and Queens, of the Seven Kingdoms have always remained a key pillar of our institution. It's a _mutually_ beneficial partnership; we help you retain support throughout your lands, and you..."

"...find myself trapped to the whims of the Iron Bank." Another interruption. "Lord Baelish's reliance upon your institution in King Robert's name was one of the reasons the realm fell into disrepair in the first place. Forgive me if that is not my priority, to rebuild palaces and throw lavish banquets while my people still starve and toil from the wars. Wars in which the Iron Bank is fully complicit in."

"Then allow us to help feed your people," Tycho said, careful to spare a look at the Queen's Hand and the Half Man, hoping for common sense to help in his favor. Was it a threat, the mention of Robert's former Master of Coin whom she personally executed? "We lend you the money, whatever Your Grace proposes to do with it matters little to us. Though, personally, I do believe that helping the smallfolk is the best course of action. But I also hear of a new castle you're building...Starkhall, is it? With the right arrangement, you may find that feeding your people and honoring your ancestors can both be accomplished with ease."

To his satisfaction, he watched the Queen turn her head towards her Marion and Tyrion, as if unsure, and seeking their counsel for the first time.

"Can we trust the Bank? Does it seem odd how willing they are to sell to me so soon after backing those who would have had me a corpse?"

"Or as a wife," Tycho corrected, "considering your belief that neither your uncle or cousin wished to see you physically harmed."

He had wanted his words to be a balm to the Queen's ego. Instead, he saw it only raised her ire.

"Do you know what happened, _banker_, the last time I was forced into a marriage not of my own choosing?"

Tycho coughed nervously, remembering the stories of the Queen's ordeal during her short marriage to House Bolton. He would not dare voice it, as merely speaking the name of the now extinct house was forbidden by the Queen's personal decree, so he imagined there would be a reason she would issue such a stern policy against it.

"Your Grace," Tyrion finally spoke, "I do not believe Lord Tycho means ill. He was merely trying to be...diplomatic."

"Tell me then, _banker_, educate me in diplomacy, just how aiding and abetting my enemies constitutes diplomacy where you come from?"

"It was a mistake," Tycho repeated again, trying to regain some semblance of a footing, "a grievous one, and one which I will do everything in my power to ensure the Bank does not repeat." He paused, knowing that despite this setback, his position had improved somewhat. But he and the Queen had been playing the same game all along. Now it was his turn to play the firm hand. "To be clear, by all accounts Queen Cersei's gold still belongs to the Iron Bank. What I have offered is a concession as restitution for what I acknowledge an unfortunate oversight, made in good faith by the Bank, in return for similar gestures of good faith from the Crown."

"Or you'll finance more of my enemies?" She did not seem to fear the notion.

Tycho shook his head, truthfully. Considering her knowledge of their duplicity, it would not prove a good idea for some time to come.

"If you still wish me to leave, I depart immediately. But allow me to help your people, Your Grace. I understand how long of a road you have left to travel in rebuilding your realm. We _can_, surely, work out a plan that is flexible enough to cater to the needs of your kingdom."

"Yes," Sansa said uneasily, looking away, "feeding and building and all that."

She seemed concerned, and she was right to be concerned. Cersei Lannister's gold would not last forever.

"Your Grace has other concerns," Marion asked, attuned to something the Queen was leaving unsaid.

"The Glovers have fled to Pentos," Sansa said after a brief pause, "among with several other houses who rebelled against the crown. The residence there of another Targaryen pretender concerns me."

"They're a world away, Your Grace," Tyrion assured. "Moneyless, powerless...Essos is a ruthless land, I've seen that firsthand. I will not be surprised if many of them find their throats cut before long."

"Yes, that's what your father Tywin thought about the Dragon Queen, isn't it," the Queen retorted, shifting her eyes to her brother (_cousin_), who looked away.

"The Glovers aren't Daenerys," Jon said, doing little to hide the pain in his voice. "And they don't have dragons."

"Still," Sansa said worriedly, "the Narrow Sea is narrow. So long as Pentos remains a haven for enemies of the realm, it will remain a threat to its peace."

"Your Grace, I fully understand." Tycho leaned in as far as he respectfully could towards the Queen, sensing an opening. Or more likely, this was what the Red Wolf had truly been steering him towards, the moment he stepped into the hall. "Braavos and Pentos have had our wars in the past. We are at peace now, but the Sea Lord is always aware of the potential threats from the south. As you know, same as the late Dragon Queen," he exchanged a sympathetic glance towards Jon Snow, "we abhor the vile practice of slavery, and we helped end that practice in Pentos. Ill feelings linger there towards us as well."

The Queen nodded. "Queen Daenerys's devotion towards freeing those in bondage was most admirable. On behalf of her legacy, I extend my gratitude towards yourself and your people in your own efforts against slavery."

"Have they, though?"

Tycho looked crossly at the Half Man. He would have thought Tyrion Lannister would be practical enough to steer the Queen to his side. Though he remembered the day when he discretely confided with his sister Cersei that the demise of slavery in the east had been not at all good for business. Did Tyrion know this, did his late sister tell him? Or was this another fruit of the Wolf Queen's spies?

"From what I observed in my stint there," Tyrion continued in a manner to his own relief, "the rich, my own host among them, continue the practice, only by a different name." He took a swig of his wine, the only glass on the table. "Servants, they call them. As if they have any other choice."

The Queen raised an eyebrow, looking over to Tycho, then to Jon. "So they are dangerous and immoral. Each war brings our continents closer. From what I've heard about Essos...there is little I find reliable about the land. No wonder the Dragon Queen was so...hardened, by the time she reached our shores. And now, the rest of the continent sees that an invasion is possible, not just with Dragons, but with mercenary armies and Dothraki also. What happens when the slavers of Volantis or the Masters of Astapor and beyond decide to follow in her footsteps?"

"I assure you, Your Grace," Tycho said as once, grabbing at his opportunity, "Braavos stands tall against the barbaric rituals of our neighbors. We were founded by slaves, on the principles of freedom, for free men." He smiled warmly at the Queen, admiring the fact that her tactics proved just as clever as they said of her. As expected, she took a hard line at first, posing, showing her strength, feigning her concern for her smallfolk. And now they could come to terms, and he could give her what she really wanted. "If you see Pentos as a threat, then of course the Iron Bank could help you."

"With all due respect, Lord Tycho," Jon protested from the other end of the table, "I hardly think another war is what we need right now." He looked to the Queen, and seemed dismayed and surprised that she did not seem to share his sentiments.

"Not war, no. But the Kinsmen's Rebellion took me by surprise. We prevailed, but I cannot allow such a roll of the die in the future. We must be fully prepared to defend the realm against any hint of a threat, from within, _and_ without, to act firmly and kill it in the womb."

"Their navy is formidable," a bald man with orange hair spoke, now that conversation turned towards military matters. This must be Paxter Redwyne, the Master of War. The Queen herself smirked at Jon, listening uncomfortably at the direction their conversation had progressed. "As Prince Martyn can confirm, our fleets are still recovering from everything we've been through."

"Rebuild," Tycho pressed, knowing the game won and thinking of his pleased colleagues. Though he knew enough that it had likely little to do with him, as the Queen and her advisers probably already worked out their plan prior to his arrival. "Rebuilt your castles, rebuild your villages, rebuild your navy. I told you, Your Grace, that we can help each other."

The Red Queen looked towards her increasingly unhappy brother. It was ironic, Tycho thought, given that Jon Stark had loved and supported a would be conqueror once.

"My king brother," she addressed, formally, "you know as well as anyone that Queen Daenerys and I often...did not see eye to eye on a number of things. But her actions and sacrifice to save Westeros from the Long Night will not be forgotten. I aim to protect _my_ country and keep the peace, but if it were possible for us to help those who cannot help themselves along the way, I would do so in her memory, to honor her name."

As usual, the King in the North made little effort to hide his emotions. Looking away from the Queen, he shook his head. "I've seen enough of war on this land. Fighting new ones on strange lands across the Narrow Sea...but I serve Your Grace, and submit to your judgment."

"It is not that the Queen seeks to make war," Paxter added, speaking as one man of the sword to another. "But she must prepare herself in the event the war comes from the east, or any direction."

Jon sighed, understanding the argument was lost. "The North is yours, more so than it's mine anyway. Our swords will answer your call, as we have before."

It would be a profitable trip, Tycho decided happily. The forgiveness of Cersei Lannister's debt was unfortunate, but it was far more beneficial in the long run to engage with a cooperative Iron Throne. Most importantly, glimpsing at the direwolf, falling into a light nap now that tensions seemed to have eased, he had saved his own life, something very crucial to merchants such as himself, lacking titles to pass down to their progeny.

"I do thank you for making the time to visit us here in Riverrun, Lord Tycho," Queen Sansa said, concluding her meeting. "As a gesture of _good faith_ from the Crown, I bid you to remain at Eddardton for two moons, as a guest for the Queen's wedding."

"Your Grace, it would be an honor." This was a surprise and welcome development. The feasting would be pleasant enough, but more importantly, it was an opportunity to develop new relationships in the new regime the Bank sorely needed.

"I travel to Winterfell tomorrow," Sansa said, her voice suddenly kind and welcoming, and Tycho could see, now that he stood no longer within her crosshairs, of why they said men and women alike often found themselves entranced in her presence. "Our ceremony there will be a private one to be held in the Godswood. My Small Council may accompany you south to Eddardton, where my betrothed and I will ride afterwards for the more public affair before the Seven."

Tycho bowed. "Then I look forward to meeting the Queen again, along with her new Prince."

* * *

**Jon**

Jon Snow, for whatever names or titles he had, has or will have, in his mind Snow was the name he would know himself as, was unhappy with his sister. He loved her, of course, and trusted her judgment more than just about anyone alive in the Seven Kingdoms. But Sansa had brought up _her_ name, invoking it as an excuse to shed blood, and break a fragile peace. There were whispers in the countryside, as he rode down from Winterfell, that they called her Sansa the Blessed, that she had been especially chosen by the Gods to never see a battle lost before her own eyes. It was such magic, some even claimed, that caused both Joffrey and Ramsey to prevail over the mighty Stannis Baratheon himself, having unknowingly held a token of the Gods in their own hands at the time.

He had arrived too late for the battle at Harrenhal, Sansa's men easily crushing the overwhelmed rebels and invaders once Robin Arryn withdrew his support. The young lord claimed to have never entertained the thought in the first place, but obviously all Sansa needed were a few ravens from Bran to complete his trial and sentence, Jon himself ending up another future ward. His current one he pitied for what was to come, eager as Beryn was for it.

"Well, that's rare," Marion Lannister said. Jon could smell the wine from across the room, shared generously by both Lannisters alongside their Stark Queen. It was just them in the room now, two Starks and two Lannisters, holding seven kingdoms together, when once the feud between their families had ripped it apart. Wars against one another yesterday, wars plotted together today, but still wars nevertheless. By the door stood Brienne, and Paxter Redwyne returned, having taken leave for the privy.

"What is," he asked, trying to not look his usual, sullen self. And failing, he knew.

"For something to go exactly to plan."

"He believed it," Sansa said crypically, smirking at Jon. Seeing the conspiratorial smiles exchanged, he deduced that they had come to some kind of agreement before his arrival. Clearly concerning the banker, though Jon knew most of the exchange had likely been carefully scripted beforehand, Tycho Nestoris falling too eagerly to his sister's trap. But there was something else he was missing.

"Believed what? You don't want war with Pentos?"

"Apologies, Jon." Without the need for formalities, the Queen addressed him by the names they knew as children. "We discussed this while you were still pursuing the Glover banners. I would have liked to fill you in beforehand, but the banker arrived earlier than expected."

"It's for the better," Marion said. "Jon's reactions made it believable. He wouldn't have been able to fake it otherwise."

He looked around at all the occupants in the room, all smirking at him, all in on the joke apart from him, even Ser Brienne's stoic face hiding mild amusement. The Queen rose and approached, her regal posture suggesting that she was now speaking to him as his sovereign, not his sister.

"We brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Yet it is clear that some crave war still. There is a poison in men's blood that will not rest until it has claimed that of another. So be it. If men want war, I'll allow it. But not here, and not against me."

"Pentos it is," Jon conceded, understanding. Sansa was a cynic, suspicious of any potential threat, and she had every right to be. "At least they won't put up much of a fight, provided our ships make it across safely."

"Not Pentos," Tyrion said, eyes wholly sober. "Braavos."

"The Iron Bank just paid for the very ships which will destroy them," Sansa said, a triumphant gleam in her eye.

The King in the North glared incredulously at all the occupants of the room, unable to believe that they were all in on this insanity. Even Tyrion? Daenerys's former Hand returned his gaze sympathetically.

"I know you may be thinking right now that you're seeing my sister's ghost in your sister."

"Or I see the true power the crown has over those who wear it," Jon muttered, remembering another Queen he had known.

"I do this not for the Crown, but for the realm."

The two children of Ned Stark stared at each other for a moment, Jon knowing that Sansa was still toying with him, testing his reaction, observing every twitch upon his face.

"I took this crown because I knew how I would wield its power. I took it so I could protect my family. Those I love. Those I trust. Maybe the Iron Bank will be satiated today, maybe tomorrow. But for how long? As you heard, they must make their money."

"This war," Tyrion said, "the last war, and the ones before that. The Blackfyres, the Dance of Dragons, even the conquering, and all the other ones between the realms, not to mention all the chaos out in Essos...who do you think finances all these wars?"

"How long will we continue to allow a foreign power to dictate or disrupt the peace in our land," Sansa asked, the fire breathing life to the Queen's voice. Tully fire, Jon thought. Arya's anger was cold. So was Robb's. His own anger...well that was a different blood altogether. "How can I protect my family, my people...my children, and their inheritances, when the Iron Bank can pay off any pretender or usurper, to steal everything they hold dear to them?"

The Queen's northern accent remained as thick as ever. Despite her childhood dreams of going south, Sansa's speech was always the purest northern in the family. And she probably retained it, cultivated it even more now, Jon thought, to remind the southern court who wielded the power over them. To also remind herself of a home she once swore to never leave again.

The mention of her future children brought to mind what some of the rebels had sought. Perhaps all of them, even the Blackfyre pretender, even Edmure Tully, had presumed that one of them may force the Queen's hand in marriage, after beating her on the battlefield. But after all she had been through, Sansa would never again let anyone dictate the person she would share her bed with, and Jon was surprised that she had not executed both Edmure and Robin Arryn by her own hand, kin be damned.

"Speaking of your future children," Jon remarked, wanting to think not of war for even half a minute, inevitable as it was, "Beryn's becoming well versed with the sword."

"As he should be," Sansa said, "trained by the Great Sword of the North himself."

"Do you see in him another Sword of the Morning," Paxter asked, intrigued. Like any man his age, he probably once worshiped the great Arthur Dayne in his youth.

"Perhaps with more time," Jon said. The boy had grown on him, and Jon was surprised himself how reluctant he felt about letting the boy go, even if it was to his own sister. "As long as he doesn't have to busy himself with court business, once he's a prince."

"A proud and glorious name, the Heir to the Westerlands and my own childhood home, beloved by Prince Martyn himself, so as to seal even closer our alliance with Dorne." Tyrion raised his glass as if for a toast. "Of course, it helps that he's worshiped our Queen since the day he caught sight of her. And three years spent attending to Jon Snow ought to be enough to dry the ambition out of anyone, even Aegon the Conqueror himself."

The both exchanged a look, both thinking upon the same thing. _But not Daenerys._

"A perfect match," Marion interrupted wryly, "made in political heaven."

"He's grown now," the Queen chuckled, sitting down next to Jon, allowing herself a rare slouch in the presence of her counselors. "You said he rode bravely in the skirmish with the Glover rearguard. He'll do nicely, he'll be loyal, and perfectly happy giving me a few children, then feeding me lemon cakes until I'm fatter than King Robert himself."

Tyrion laughed. "An admirable goal, though impossible, from what I recall of Robert's last days."

"Ironic," Sansa mused, in a way that told Jon that she felt nearly as comfortable sitting in this room with her advisers as she did with him, "that had once been the sum of my own ambitions, to marry a king. I pity the poor boy, I fear he may not truly understand what he's getting himself into."

"You'll treat him a lot better than Joffrey treated you," Jon said gently, then joked. "Besides, you're a lot prettier than Joffrey."

The Queen sat upright, cognizant that there was more work at hand, and she needed to finish things before her advisers got too drunk.

"We'll need to allow for some convenient 'escapes', maybe even Edmure or Sweetrobin. Let our rogues and would be vagabonds all somehow find their way to Pentos. Half the city will be filled with miscreants and exiles, all thinking themselves a rightful Lord or would be King. Soon, the Iron Bank will be the ones pressing us for this navy, to control their increasingly unruly neighbor."

Jon narrowed his eyes. This discussion was too southern, and he was still confused as to how his own sister was seeing this new war of hers. "So if I'm to get this straight, we're supporting the slavers in Pentos against the free men in Braavos, just to send a message to the Iron Bank?"

Paxter Redwyne walked over to Jon, tracing the table with the fingers on his one hand, as if the wood were a map. "We _do_ take Pentos. First, actually, joining our fleet with the Braavosi fleet. Then, as they're celebrating their victory alongside us, we ambush and turn on the Braavosi ships, then sail north immediately to blockade their harbor. There'll likely be a siege, but not for long."

"It's a good plan," Tyrion remarked, still eyeing Jon. "I've seen better plans fail, but it's a good plan nonetheless."

The Queen stood and leaned over the table, pointing to a spot next to Paxter's imaginary map. "If both Braavos and Pentos fall, then Lorath may yield without even a battle. Three of the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms," Sansa looked her brother, again testing him, awaiting his response, "and it will be the greatest empire this world has seen since Old Valyria."

"Sansa the Conqueror," Jon said, shaking his head. Too many victories had apparently changed his sister for the worse since he saw her in Winterfell. He managed his words carefully. "Father never could have imagined..."

The Queen reached her hand out towards Tyrion, who subsequently poured a glass of the wine and slid it over to her. She sipped, and smirked at her brother, as if they had all ignored the political aspect of his question on purpose.

"Do I scare you, Jon?"

What kind of answer was she expecting? That his once sweet sister seemed yet more proof of the corrosive power of her throne? That he wondered whether she was taking all the whisperings of Sansa the Blessed to heart, that the gods would bless her to conquer every city from Braavos to Asshai?

Her face switched to one of contempt. "It's not about empires, or conquering. The Braavosi are hypocrites. They preach their freedom, yet their monies and their banks pay for all the chains in Slaver's Bay...armies like the Unsullied before the Dragon Queen freed them. No more. We take the Iron Bank itself, we sail every ounce of their ill gotten gold back to our shores, and we'll have enough to feed and shelter our people for generations to come, without foreign reliance, without a chance for them to ever foment future wars on our continent."

Her answer hit him like a wall. As absurdly ambitious as it was, he felt relief in that at least her intentions were...good? That was something?

"Deprived of the source of their coin," Tyrion added, apparently as firm in this plan as his Queen, "the former slavers in the Bay of Dragons will find little assistance in reclaiming those cities, preserving Daenerys's legacy and accomplishments. And slavers in cities like Volantis and Tyrosh will soon find themselves out of gold as well."

"Braavos is key," Sansa continued explaining. Now who was treating whom like children? "We can't take away their livelihood, not without providing them good governance in return. Pentos and Lorath will provide buffers, to hold off the other Free Cities should they seek to interfere. And control over the trade coming and leaving Braavos and Pentos will push cities like Tyrosh and Myr to engage in trade, under our terms, on both sides of the Narrow Sea."

It seemed everyone in the room were in agreement except for him. Even Tyrion, whose opinion he trusted, whose shared experience with one would be conqueror ought to make him weary of future ones. So he beckoned the Half Man for a cup of his own to drink.

"What am I, the squire," Tyrion muttered as he poured.

"After all these years," Jon said, taking a drink, "my sister..."

"Cousin," Tyrion corrected with a wink.

"...still manages to surprise me." He looked into the glass, its bottom barely visible through the murky red liquid, and remembered watching Sansa, young Sansa, poor hurt Sansa, bruises still covering her shivering body, take her first sip of ale at Castle Black. A frightened little bird who had just escaped the worst sadist in the Seven Kingdoms, and yet was already itching to fight him, to take back their home in the name of their family. Alone, if necessary, she had said, a long ago day when she had no armies to own name. He raised his glass to his Queen. "Here's to Sansa the Conqueror then. To her wars, and the peace thereafter."

The rest of the remaining Small Council raised their glasses, and Sansa took a careful, calculated sip.

"No. Not Conqueror," she corrected. Reflecting upon his words, Sansa looked fondly at her brother, and smiled. "When we were children, Father used to tell us tales of Bran the Builder. It'd be a fitting path to follow. Sansa...the Rebuilder."

* * *

**Sansa**

It was late. When she was younger, she had always been early to bed. To please her parents, when she was a child. To escape the horrors of her everyday existence, during the wars. The change seemed to come while she and Jon marched south on Winterfell to reclaim their home from the Boltons. She fretted day and night during that ride, worried for her brother, worried for herself, and sleepless nights became a regular thing while she lay awake in uncomfortable army camp tents moon after moon.

Another war won, a short one, yet one whose cost had been hundreds more lives, and now she was already twenty steps into planning the next one. Sansa told herself that she'd be saving more lives, once she had the Iron Bank's gold, once she could feed her peoples without limit, once she could put an end to any unnecessary wars caused or extended by the bankers' greed. But that had been how Daenerys had thought too, hadn't she? All the way until the Dragon Queen found herself justified in the massacre of nearly a million people, so as to save tens of millions more from tyranny through the next thousand years. So she tells herself now, Braavos must be occupied so as to not descend into a pit of chaos following an invasion and the withdrawal of all its gold, that she could enrich Lorath with an improved trade network, she could help the enslaved 'servants' of Pentos; certainly her advisers, from Yohn Royce to her former husband, all agreed to one degree or another, much of the plan amended to fit their suggestions.

But how much of the enthusiasm from Paxter and Prince Martyn came from men not satisfied with wars already won, but eager to continue making their names with further conquests? What of her new Hand, looking for a way to eclipse all his predecessors in reputation and deeds? Could she trust even Tyrion's intentions, that he could be guided by a sense of guilt, a desire to fulfill his last Queen's mission, unknown even to himself? Did part of her own soul not desire the picture, four years secure in her throne now, of House Stark, of _Sansa I_ of House Stark, being the first to rule two continents across the Narrow Sea? Or was it self preservation, the vague idea that letting her armies and officers get off on their bloodlust in faraway lands could possibly satiate their ambitions at home?

_The lords called Aegon the Unlikely a tyrant_, she recalled from Tyrion's books, _because he tried to reduce their tyranny. Would not be a bad thing if more of my own lords die in the wars to come._

Many lords died at Gardener's Crossing by her choice to place them in her vanguard. Edmure's Rebellion gave her another chance to purge at least some who had proven their disloyalty to the Crown. But the extension of such ideas she dared not speak to even her own Small Council, or her brother.

She eyed the bottle of wine hungrily, having sworn off drinking, apart from company, so soon before her wedding. Not that it should matter, she was the Queen, desired by all across the realm, acclaimed by lords and peasants alike as the most beautiful woman in the world. _Nonsense_, she knew. There was Margaery, and half her own ladies in waiting to start with, even Val, Jon's new wildling girl, but still, she had every right to eat, drink, and look however she wanted. But the idea of baring herself so completely before another man again, to let her betrothed see all of her...all her scars, all her imperfections, terrified her increasingly, as the day grew closer.

The fact it was Beryn Dayne, who was young, who looked upon her with some kind of worship, made it seem slightly less petrifying, and perhaps that was the only reason she could bring herself towards this step. And as much as she told everyone who pressed the issue, every man who came forth to court seeking her hand, that it was her own prerogative, that she could wait as long as she wished, for practicality's sake it had to be done soon. She and Margaery talked of joining their families with their children, to solidify the union of Crown and Reach. The Tyrell Queen birthed a son nine moons ago, which meant the clock was ticking for her, and now with her uncle's rebellion, she needed a second child sooner than not to inherit Riverrun one day.

The North. Dorne. Westerlands. Riverlands. Reach. All of which could be secured through Stark blood within one generation, all at the cost of marrying a rather pleasant young man. Most had it much worse than her.

_Stormlands too,_ she thought with a grin, _if Arya can return and spend just a fortnight with Gendry. __And the Iron Islands and the Vale through future wards._

"Do you judge me, Winter?"

The direwolf looked up at her by the fire, befuddled.

"Of course not. I deserve a glass to calm my nerves after today. Or three."

Satisfied Sansa was satisfied, Winter rested her head upon her paws again, eager to return to her sleep. Just as she grabbed the wine, the queen heard a knock on her door.

"Your Grace."

Her visitor was a welcome one. Sansa scoffed. "Please, they're all gone now. Enough with the formalities."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Jon replied, a rare glint of humor in his eyes, teasing her. He looked skeptically at the table, where newly commissioned maps of Essos were laid out before her. "Already planning your next war?"

Sansa sighed. "I know you don't approve, Jon."

"I don't," he agreed, knowing he could openly challenge her, just as she challenged him when he was her king. "The realms are tired of fighting. The lords, the smallfolk...they've had enough of it. _I've_ had enough of it."

He expected her to argue back, but she didn't.

"This won't be your war, Jon. I've a far worse chore for you."

Quickly pouring himself a glass, he slumped down on the chair next to her and drank it, a miserable look upon his face.

"You want me to be the King of Braavos along with the North, is that it?

"Now that you mention it...," she winked, before shaking her head. "War abroad, after everything this land has suffered, I understand how it looks, to recklessly invade a foreign land we have no claim to. But I truly believe, Jon, that this is what I must do to truly secure a lasting peace. And the only way I can show that is to stand by my men and my armies and suffer what they suffer, when the time comes."

"You're going to Braavos?" He shook his head, quietly incredulous.

"After the blockade is secure, for the last of the siege. I'm good luck, so they say, so I'm afraid you'll have to leave Lord Davos the North, while you keep an eye on the realm from Eddardton."

"I assume you're leaving both Lannisters behind," Jon asked, wincing at the thought. "I don't know what's less tolerable, having to rule your realm, or knowing I can't do it proper without listening to that damned dwarf everyday, couching his advice with slurred words and long winded tales."

"You enjoy his company more than you admit." She leaned forward, the smile on her mouth gone. "Never has a sitting King or Queen left our shores before, much less for war. You're the only one I trust not to steal the kingdoms from under me while I'm away."

There was nothing he could or needed to say to her admission, so he just took another drink.

"This isn't some kind of plot, is it," a rare humorous look on his face after the drink, "to get me on the Throne for long enough that you can just disappear back north, leaving me there?"

It was a remark made in jest, but it stirred within the Queen consternation. Not at Jon, but at herself.

"I would if I could, before. But I'm not sure I'd trade thrones with you now." It was not the answer he expected, and Sansa reminded herself that she had not seen Jon for more than a year now, and a similar absence before that. "It's not the adulation, that gets tiring. But I can do things, I can change things, change an entire city's name, to honor our father...I can help people, and I'm actually good at it...so they tell me. When I speak, people listen. It wouldn't be like that, if I was just another lady...even when I was Lady of Winterfell, they listened not because of who I am, but who my father was."

Studying Jon's thoughtful eyes, she wondered if she was indeed scaring him, whether she could truly confide in him like this still.

"Am I reminding you of _her_? Or Stannis?" The mention of _her_ was not done lightly, not a subject either one of them sought. Except she truly did worry.

It took him a while to formulate his answer. "She brooded a lot, those days in Dragonstone, when we all waited for Drogon to heal. When she wasn't worried about her enemies..."

_I was one of them._

"...I think she did give thought towards what would come after Cersei. And you, to be honest. She kept mostly to herself, not even trusting me, or Tyrion...not after Varys's betrayal. One day she hinted at me, when I got her to leave the castle, take a walk by the water. She told me, '_it's hard to envision a world no one's ever seen.'_" He closed his eyes, and she regretted her part in dredging up their past. "It's due, all these shit years since the Mad King. She was right in a way...maybe breaking the wheel was too harsh...the way she meant to do it. But something had to change, even Cersei recognized that, I think. They both failed. I'd like to think on my best day, I can sit on that throne and do an adequate job...but I'm probably too much of a northern fool for that. You're not, but you're not one of them either...that's how you can play men like that banker. So I trust you, Sansa...not as your brother, but as your subject, whose own well being depends on your success."

It was not complete validation, or absolution, but he spoke his words honestly, and that was enough for her.

"I don't envision a world no one's ever seen. I'm not even sure of the one I'm building today."

"You're sure enough," Jon replied. "Sansa Stark does not fight a war she doesn't believe she can win."

_Have you forgotten about the dragons already?_

"Littlefinger once told me to fight every battle, in my mind. But I don't to assume them won already."

She closed her eyes, a queen who could not wholly escape her own past.

"Doesn't stop you from imagining them," Jon said, a hint of accusation in his voice. "Do you plan to conquer Tyrosh and Volantis yourself too, after the Iron Bank?"

"No," Sansa said, truly dreading the thought. "But maybe my grandchildren will."

The last of the Targaryen line and the first of the next Stark line raised a glass to one another.

* * *

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**Notes and responses:** And that's it. I'd actually written parts of this well before starting the prior story, so I figured I'd rework it and post it now. This was a different type of story, less character driven and more of a snapshot of how the Sansa from the last story is doing, four years into her reign...closing out on some of the questions left unanswered from the last one...yet maybe raising some new tangents. I don't expect any more stories to come in this series, but ya never know.

The goal here is to show a glimpse of a possible future in this AU. Sansa's a bit more comfortable in her reign now, even getting a bit Tywin-esque when considering her dynasty. Though I truly believe this will be the last war she'll pursue (not counting any future invasions or rebellions). Maybe Arya can make a return trip by then and help her as well, considering how well she knows Braavos. Regardless, a centralized treasury will certainly help her bring stability to the realm and afford the beginnings of a standing army, while reducing the feudal powers of an already weakened nobility. And an outward facing foreign policy, with holdings in Essos, will hopefully further spur trade abroad, considering how more of Essos will depend on Westeros with the Iron Bank's gold transferred there. With any luck, it'll bring more men and women of various talents from Essos to King's Landing...I mean Eddardton, and hopefully spur a sort of Westerosi renaissance.

I figure that this will be a good place to thank everyone who enjoyed the last story and left your comments. I am very glad that many of you were able to appreciate the grayer, moral world and the characters I was trying to draw in A War for Five Queens, in a way that I hoped could be vaguely reminiscent of the show's world. Unfortunately, this story was not as complex as the last one, but again, I hope it provided a decent glimpse into what was possible after its ending.


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